Avery has until the winter solstice to find the final piece in the fairy queen's plan. In exchange: his family's lives and freedom.
Logan has been protecting the town of Dwyer from mythological threats for years. The destruction of the entire world...
I do not know what I am doing. I get a little high off of it--the way no one questions it. Avery, the person. Avery, the boy. Maybe Kyara was right. Maybe it is easier to fit in here. I have always felt more human than anything. I get this creeping feeling, when someone says Avery. Him. The feeling makes me want to stay. I do not know what I am doing. Well, yes, I know what I am doing right now. I am standing next to Logan's car, waiting for him to appear from his house and tell me where we are going. But I have no idea what I am doing in the long run. I know what I am supposed to do. Maybe I cannot do it. Maybe I am making it harder for myself. Maybe. Logan appears and interrupts my progressively more and more pessimistic train of thought, for which I am extremely grateful. He stands in the doorway of his tiny townhouse, half-leaning into the doorframe. He is covered in loose dark fabric, as I have started to come to expect. He jogs down the steps to meet me. "Hey," he says. I look him up and down again. "You look nice." He cracks an incredibly sarcastic smile. "Okay." He looks normal. We both know that. But I think that is what I meant. I hope we both know that, too. "You aren't going to return the compliment?" He shrugs; his smile grows. "You're okay." I shrug. "Alright." I turn to close the distance between myself and Logan's car. "No, you're supposed to argue with me." "Am I?" "Yeah." Logan walks around me and unlocks the driver's side. He gets in, leans across the gearshift, and pops the lock on the passenger door. When I open it, he continues: "It's so you admit you're attractive so that I don't have to." "Is it?" "Mm." Logan turns on the car. "Go ahead." "You think I am attractive." He laughs as he pretends to sigh. "Close enough. Yes. Confirmed." I shut my door; he shuts his. "Where are we going?" He looks over at me. "Don't know. Hoped you'd decide." "Pft." We both stare forward. "I'll just drive," he says. "I like doing that."
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"Don't text me while I'm driving."
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Logan laughs and looks over at me; his hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm serious."
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Logan, on a leisurely crawl down an abandoned road, glances at the notification on his screen and pulls over, surprisingly without making any sort of quip. He looks out the front window. "Why here?" I point out to the horizon. "Ocean," I say. "Right there. Just over the hill." "Can't even see it." "We can't even sea it." "Ha. That was terrible." "We don't need to see it." He shifts the car out of gear. I do not know what I am doing.
I have found a place to stay. A big, empty theater. I think it might not truly be abandoned. It is just empty for the moment. The water and electricity still work. But it obviously has not been used in at least a few months. I make a place to sleep in the light booth. Backstage, I find swathes of fabric and cloaks from costumes and pillows, as well as a mattress covered in blue paint, probably once used for a safe landing when an actor jumped in faux water. I drag all of these things up to the booth and make a place to sleep. I dump the contents of my bag on the floor. I will get salt (to protect everything from the Queen's spies) tomorrow. Right now, I need to sleep. At least the need for sleep is not anything new. No matter who you are, no matter what you are, you need to sleep.
A piece of paper, folded up neatly, falls on my face and wakes me up. A complex, rune-like symbol is drawn on the side facing the ceiling. I recognize it immediately; it is Eamon's signature.
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Eamon is one of those spies I was talking about. Someone sent from the Queen. To check up on me and my task. He looks like a human child, but I know he is actually high fey, and around three hundred years old. Splendid place, Aedui, the letter says. He must have written it after I got here last night. It's... rustic. I'm just writing to check on your progress. We are entirely aware you have only been in Mundanity for a week, butif no progress is made soon, her Highness will continue to wonder if perhaps she was too lenient in your sentence. Gods-curse. I assume I've woken you up; it's rather late. This particular sentence is enchanted. Go back, read it again. You're tired now, yes? Maybe you never even woke up. These types of enchantments--when the enchanted is tricked by the enchanter into enchanting themselves--are technically illegal, and Eamon knows so. I could press magical abuse charges, if I wanted to. ...A year ago, maybe. But no one is going to care anymore if high fey magically abuse someone like me. (I like to think that they would've at some time in history. I can never be sure.) I will be checking with Kyara to see if your progress accounts match up. I doubt I need to remind you, but failure to complete your task in a reasonable time frame will result firstly in a series of motivational personal visits, and then by your removal from Mundanity and being returned to your legal guardians. Much fortune, Eamon. He is going to talk to my sister. I don't know where she is--she has not contacted me since that party. I know she has a body, but she left with that body's friends. I have no idea how to get in touch with her. I have a sneaking suspicion for what a motivational personal visit entails. It is anything but enjoyable. Kyara is supposed to be helping me. I know I would be onto something already if she were here. I crumple up the letter and throw it across the light booth. I try to think more about how to find Kyara, but Eamon's enchantment is sinking farther and farther into my brain, and pulling me down with it. In just a few seconds, I am asleep.
